


Wait for it

by pearypie



Series: stars in your eyes (or: the Hamilton chronicles) [5]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 13:26:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8715676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: He's spent too long alone - waiting, hoping. The monotonous torture never changes but for her, oh for her he'd do just about anything.





	

_Love doesn’t discriminate/ Between the sinners and the saints/ It takes and it takes and it takes/ And we keep loving anyway/ We laugh and we cry and we break and we make our mistakes/ And if there’s a reason why I’m by her side/ When so many have tried/ Then I’m willing to wait for it._ — Aaron Burr

 

* * *

 

“Oh, isn’t she _darling?_ Just as you were, my dear.”

The corpse remained silent, utterly still. Bare bones and ancient, crumbling lace.

“She likes to laugh, you see. Smile, really. How she _beams!_ You’d be wretchedly proud of her, my valkyrie. A bit like a pup but with more bite than the earl.” Undertaker sets aside a few books from the other side of the room. “ _He’s_ a bit of a frail one. But I can’t say I blame his disposition—mother was awfully sick as it was. You would’ve liked her, I think. Probably not at first. But you’d have grown to like her—or you may have just lopped her head off. You were never the compromising sort.”

Skull, spine, ribs, _humerus._

The Undertaker burst out laughing; his cackles echoed throughout the empty funeral parlor as he clutched at his sides, breath growing short as tears streamed down his face.

Skull, spine, ribs, _humerus._

Oh it was too much—it was too _funny._

_“That was a terrible pun.” She smiles._

Another burst of laughter wheezes out from him and Undertaker topples onto a grim and grime wing chair. Faded burgundy and decades old rosewood. France, 1720.

“You’re quite right m’dear.” Undertaker sighs, smile wide and momentarily content. “I’m losing my edge.”

_“Don’t you dare. False modesty is a terrible look on you.”_

“Oh-ho! So you _do_ think I’m… _comedic_ still?”

_“I think you’re horrible. And I don’t know why I love you.”_

“Ah, you do touch my borrowed heart!” Undertaker flew from his perch, silver hair stretching behind him as his face—a beautiful, macabre sight carved by fallen angels and wingless seraphs—comes into temporary view. “I can’t stand your magnificence. Entrance me still, Titania!” Tenderly, he took the carefully made skeleton into his arms, eyes tracing over the hollowed eye sockets and faded blue ribbon tied right around the spine. “Oh _Claudia._ I’m still honored you let me use the prettiest form of your name.”

_“If you’d called me Claudy I would have run you clean through. It reminds me of day old syllabub and untrimmed white beards.”_

A trickle of laughter escaped the Undertaker though his eyes were solemn and his hands gentle. “Syllabub, syllabub. How it makes me wretch.”

_“Our syllabub song! You still remember!”_

“Of course I remember, _ma valkyrie._ I remember every little thing about you. From the flush of your cheeks to the way your little nose gets rosy pink during the winter months.” Undertaker holds her closer though his touch is as fragile as a bird’s wing.

Claudia’s honey-gold eyes gaze up at him—gently, with a touch of good natured mischief and charm. It was the look she always gave him, the expression he’s impressed into his mind for now and forever.

“Won’t you sing something for me?” Claudia asks, one arm coming to wrap around his neck. Noose-like and secure.

“What would you like to hear?” He could never deny her. Not her.

She smiles, a dimple appearing on her left cheek. “Oh just about anything. I’m easy like that.” She laughs, disregarding her position as the Queen’s Watchdog, and reveling in this moment of fleeting humanity.

Undertaker leans closer, silvery bangs brushing against her cheekbone. “ _Oh_ are you now?” He teases.

Claudia shakes her head, smile widening. “Sing for me first.”

His eyes flutter closed, ever so briefly, but when he wakes, Claudia is in his arms still—cobalt haired and beautiful. “Alright.” He says, voice soft—so soft. “ _Oh Polly, Pretty Polly, would you take me unkind/ Polly, Pretty Polly, would you take me unkind/ Let me set beside you and tell you my mind…_ ”

His voice is musical and lyrics flow, soothing and deep—a midnight ballad while the moon’s still full. In her arms Undertaker sings—contentedly, continuously, tenderly.

_Oh Polly, Pretty Polly, come go along with me._

**Author's Note:**

> \- ‘Pretty Polly’ is an English folk song and murder ballad that first appeared in either 1760 or 1765. 
> 
> A/N: I miss Undertaker. I miss him a looooot.


End file.
